The Actual & Truthful Adventures of Becky Thatcher

by Iacopo Bruno

  FOR MOM, THE WRITER

  FOR DAD, THE STORYTELLER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, to Samuel Langhorne Clemens, a.k.a. Mark Twain: Thank you, sir. I have the utmost respect and admiration for your work. This story was directly inspired by one of your books and there’s no getting around that, but please don’t strike me down with some sort of witty, wise, humor-based vengeance from the great Beyond for leaning heavily on your plot and characters. I am ever grateful for your words.

  To my wonderful, tireless, hilarious agent, Tina Wexler: You have provided me with countless words of support and wisdom, and have made me smile more than I can say. Thank you for changing my life, you life-changer you.

  To my editor, Kristin Ostby, who I will refer to as The Manuscript Whisperer: thank you for your gentle guidance, brilliant ideas, fabulous sense of humor, and generous use of exclamation points in written communication.

  To Justin Chanda and the entire team at Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers: I owe you all so much. Thank you to Krista Vossen for the book’s design and to the incomparable Iacopo Bruno for his cover and illustrations.

  Thank you to critique partners Joy McCullough-Carranza, Becky Wallace, Tara Dairman, and Ann Bedichek. Emily, Lucia, and Evelyn Paul were the first readers from my target audience and they gave invaluable feedback as well.

  Thank you to my husband, Christopher, for giving me time to work and for altering the course of my life by writing me four sonnets (your good looks factored in, but the sonnets clinched it).

  Lastly, though the publication of this book is dedicated to my parents, any heart found in the story is for Mimi, Kate, and Sara. And, of course, for Jon.

  ST. PETERSBURG, MISSOURI

  1860

  Chapter One

  Caught in the night

  My left leg twitched at the tickle of another night-boy. Hidden by the wide trunk of a river sycamore, I shifted in my crouch and reached a hand inside Jon’s overalls to trap and smack the creeping skitter. Darn things had been a considerable nuisance since I settled myself along the Mississippi to have a look-see at the grounded steamboat and its crew.

  The men had piled onshore and hauled sitting logs from the brush while I played at them being pirates and me being a stowaway. With the help of passed flasks and a roaring riverside fire, they’d gone from grumbling to mighty spirited in the last hour, and before long I got sucked in by a story one of them was reading from a tablet of writing paper. I was tolerably invested in the tale of a dimwit and his ornery bullwhip—the dimwit having whipped himself nearly to tears while the bull watched—and barely had time to react when the listener nearest me rose with a chuckle and a belch.

  While the crew applauded the story’s end, I deepened my crouch and slunk farther behind the tree, checking to make sure Jon’s marble sack was still stuffed into one of my hip pockets.

  The belching man stumbled around the fire with a happy laugh. “You mean to tell us,” he said, lurching at the storyteller, “that you put those words together in your own head?”

  “That’s how writing generally works,” the story man said, standing and stretching. “Think up a few lies, put them to paper. I imagine any of you liars would make a fine writer. Now I best get going, boys. I suggest you find lodging in town somewhere.” He dusted stray bits of log bark from his pants and sighed. “I’ll be staying in a house on Willow Street if you need me. Blue house, black shutters, white porch.”

  Willow? That was the street we lived on. Forgetting my stowaway role, I backed up and crunched down on an unfortunately placed twig, crying out as the skitter in my overalls came back to life and buzzed around my pant leg. Before I could flee, the storyteller’s face was in my own.

  “Boys, guard your secrets, we’ve got a spy.” The man gave a once-over to my braids and small stature. “A tricky one, by the looks of her.” His smile was amused and friendly, but I knew better than to trust a pirate, even a made-up one.

  Swallowing slowly, I stepped into the firelight, showing that I wasn’t afraid of dying a dastardly pirate death if that was to be my fate. I gathered my courage to make a real good speech about them never taking me alive, but when I looked over the puzzled crew, it seemed better to keep things brief. “I’m . . . I’m just out hunting night frogs for fish bait. Guess I’m about done.”

  The story man winked at me. “Hunting night frogs? I believe you’d make a decent writer too. You’re out mighty late. Care for a nightcap?” He held out a flask, then pulled it back with a grin. “No, you better not. You need someone to walk you home, Miss?”

  I lit out for home without answering, cursing skitters in general and the one who’d made a feast outta my leg in particular. And twigs. I cursed them plenty as well.

  The riverbank gave way to a dirt road, cool and smooth under my bare feet with barely a pebble to throw. Only a town as boring as a bible lesson would have such clean dirt roads. When I breathed in through my nose, lingering wood smoke from the crew’s fire mixed with the early autumn scent of dry, sunbaked grass and ripening leaves. I stood still for a second in the light of the stars and waxing moon, wriggling my toes and taking a look at my new life. The night version of St. Petersburg spread out before me in a quiet beauty that was too calm for my taste. Too much like a place that had never gotten to know my brother.

  Once I was in our yard, I avoided the Miss Ada–shaped shadow in the lamplit kitchen and scooted around the house. I lifted the parlor window. Well, shoot. That tiny squeaking sound wasn’t bad, but somebody went and put clinky vases on the table next to the window, and somebody went and parked her body in the parlor and fell asleep.

  Ducking behind Mama’s big blue armchair, I timed my movement with her snoring and snuck a look at her nightly reading, which she’d forgotten on the end table. Looked like some muckety-muck romance book to me. Tucked in her hand was the family portrait that I hadn’t seen since she hid it away a year ago. In the photograph, Daddy looked stern and handsome and Mama was soft-smiled and pretty. Jon looked straight into the camera, his eye twinkle standing out even in black and white. My face was covered up by Mama’s sleeping fingers. Gently moving her hand so I was back in the family, I gave my mama a good long stare, soaking up the sight of her looking peaceful instead of sad.

  Then, ever so careful, I tippy-toed across the parlor while Mama snored on. It wasn’t until I reached my room and closed the door, quiet as a tinkle in the woods, that I saw him.

  Daddy.

  Judge Thatcher, as I called him when I got into mischief, was sitting on my bed with his arms crossed. In one hand was his fancy pocket watch, the one he used in court matters. About the size of a baby’s palm, it was always shiny and always wound and always exactly on time. He called it Old Reliable. Me and Old Reliable weren’t on friendly terms.

  “It’s past ten o’clock, Becky,” he said, snapping the watch shut. When he caught sight of my clothing, I saw him soften and go to a sorrowful place before he recovered himself. “Mighty late, considering you said your good nights nearly two hours ago.”

  “Oh, is it late?” I asked. “Well, I guess I’ll get to sleep.” I yawned real big. “Judge, I’ll have to ask you to excuse yourself. I’m getting mighty big to have my daddy stick around to sing a lullaby, so feel free to get on to bed. You look real tired.”

  “I believe you can spare a moment or two.” He caught my nose between a giant finger and thumb and squeezed it nice and playful, but his eyes looked like business. “Are you going to be giving me trouble every night, Miss Becky?” He said it in his low, low voice that sounded like molasses would, if molasses could talk. Wh
en he added a gravelly rumble and stood to his full height of over six feet, he could make criminals shake in their stolen boots.

  “No, sir, I won’t be giving you trouble every night.” And I wouldn’t be any trouble at all if you’d quit waiting up to catch me.

  He patted the bed for me to sit down. “We’re trying for a fresh start here. I have enough on my mind between making sure your mama settles in and having the Pritchard brothers loose in my jurisdiction. Is that understood? Eleven-year-old girls belong in bed, not exploring a town like it was a new territory.”

  “It’s new territory to me,” I said.

  “Becky . . .” He trailed off, but the tone of his voice said plenty more.

  “Who are the Pritchard brothers?” Asking Daddy about work usually got him good and distracted. I put on a fearful face and added a tremble to my voice. “Are they awful dangerous?”

  “Hard to say. The local law says they like to thieve and cause trouble. They’ve gone missing upriver and that’s reason enough for you to not be sneaking around at night. No more of your wildness, you hear?”

  Hmm. It seemed mighty convenient to have marauders about when the Judge didn’t want me wandering. I half-wondered if Daddy hadn’t made them up on the spot. “Yes, sir.”

  “Hold out your fingers, so I can see you aren’t crossing them.”

  Well, shoot. He couldn’t see my feet, though.

  “Toes, too, you rascal.” He smiled and I thought I was off the hook for sure, but the grin was followed by one of those big adult sighs, like a girl having a little adventure was about the heaviest thing in the world, and it was sitting right on my daddy’s shoulder, weighing him down with a terrible pressure. “Don’t you want to know how you got caught?”

  I considered the question for traps and additional punishment, then gave a hesitant nod. “Yes, Judge.”

  “A boy about your age was down the street, doing schoolwork on his front porch around eight thirty this evening.”

  I cursed myself for not wearing a hat to tuck my hair out of sight. “Must not be the brightest of boys,” I noted. “I always have mine done before supper.”

  Daddy flinched like he’d been skitter-bit. “Maybe he’s more vexed by schoolwork than you. Anyhow, this boy saw you pass down the street alone and told his aunt.”

  I reached around my brain, hunting for cover. “Could’ve been anyone that he saw. Could’ve been a dog.”

  Daddy gave me his staring-down-at-a-criminal expression. “Becky, we’ve been seen around town for a few days now. He recognized you, and his aunt sent him over in case we didn’t know your whereabouts. Mighty uncomfortable thing to happen. What in Lord’s name were you doing?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing worth telling anyone’s aunt about. I was checking on that grounded steamboat. Heard it let out a blast and went to investigate. I wanted to make sure it didn’t go crazy and blow up the whole town. How’s that wrong?”

  “Becky . . .”

  I held up one hand, just like I was testifying in court. “Judge, I solemnly swear that I couldn’t help it. There’s something real mysterious about a steamboat at night. All sorts of people were sitting around a fire right there by the river.”

  “Oh, Becky.” He shook his head at me and rubbed his big hands up and down his face. “Tell me, how did you ever manage to pull yourself away from that scene?”

  “Got caught listening. They offered me some of their liquor, and I didn’t take any,” I relayed, hoping to earn some goody points. “Then I ran home.”

  He sighed another big one and sifted both hands through his hair. He oughtn’t do that. Mama says he doesn’t have much more hair to lose, without him helping it along like that. That is, she used to say that, back when she was being Mama.

  “Becky, you’ve got a good heart, but you’ve also got more excuses than common sense. It wouldn’t hurt you to make some attempt to grow up. It’s time to show me you know what it means to be responsible.”

  Well, it took most of my strength not to stick my tongue out at that business.

  “Get to bed. And stop wearing your brother’s clothes, all right? I can take it, but it gives your mama a considerable amount of heartache to see you in Jon’s overalls and shirts. It’s hardly been a year.”

  I knew how long it’d been, of course. A year had come and gone last month, and that’s when Daddy decided it was time for us to move. Probably on account of something to do with Mama’s sadness that I couldn’t get any particulars on, other than I was supposed to keep my mouth shut tight about matters that didn’t concern me. And that wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard a sackful of times already. “Yes, Judge Thatcher.”

  He placed a kiss on each of my black braids. “I reckon I’m back to being Daddy.” He walked to the door and blew me a third kiss.

  “Yes, Daddy. And Daddy?”

  He paused. “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “What was that boy’s name? The one that told on me.”

  Daddy scratched his head and yawned. “I believe his name was Thomas Sawyer. Looked about your age. Most likely, you’ll meet him at school tomorrow.”

  After hearing Daddy’s footsteps fade down the stairs, I took my sack of special marbles from my pocket and held them tight as I said my prayers, telling that writer man’s story to Jon up in Heaven. I heard his laughter in my head, which made me feel good and cozy and safe.

  “Don’t you worry, Jon. I’ll find a way to keep my promise.” I gave the marbles a little hug. I miss you so much my toes ache, I added to myself, not wanting to share that particular thought with my brother. Jon had always been too full of spirit to bother with sadness.

  Then I said my good night to the world and commenced to sleeping my last sleep before my first day of school in St. Petersburg, Missouri. It was a shame, but most likely I would not have a kind word for that Sawyer boy when I met him.

  Darn that Tom.

  Chapter Two

  Ugly outlaws and the town witch and a sore eye

  There’s not much better in the world than waking up to hotcakes and sausage cooking. I smelled it even as I was coming out of my sleep, so I got up happy. Splashed my face and washed my legs off, wrestled my tights on without tearing them, combed and braided my mop, and got on my blue dress with the horrible lace collar. That sausage smelled so fine that I barely cringed while doing up my buttons.

  Sliding into a seat at the small table in the kitchen, I breathed in the delicious aroma and promise of maple syrup. Even though the room was a long rectangle instead of the square of our old kitchen, our wall-plates hung on display and so did the familiar chalkboard where Miss Ada wrote down the dinner menu. Fried chicken and corn and taters and peach pie, it said. If I closed my eyes and inhaled, it almost felt like we were back in Riley. And if I squeezed them real tight, I could almost imagine that Jon was just late to the morning meal.

  Miss Ada was at the stove, flipping the meat patties so they flew in the air, whipped around, and slapped back down. Then she seared them with a hot sizzle. I loved that sound. She wouldn’t let me help ever since I flipped one straight up to the ceiling, where it left an awful grease mark.

  “Don’t you let me catch you drinking out of that syrup jug, Miss Becky,” she said, not taking her eyes off the pan. “Breakfast’ll be right along.”

  Dropping my fingers from the handle, I dipped my pinky finger far inside the half-full jug and came up with nothing. Darn it. “Yes, Miss Ada.”

  She was all bustling arms with a string-bean frame and meant business most of the time, though she’d smiled at me more since Jon died. She always smelled like hotcakes and soap, which was a nice sort of smell. Miss Ada’d been with us since I was just a year old and she was fourteen. I was awful glad when she agreed to move with us even though it meant moving to a slave-keeping state. Her small cabin was out in the back garden, and I wondered what she did in there during her free time.

  “Y’all ready for school, sugar?” She rubbed her left arm where the fat had jumped out of
the pan and bit her.

  I couldn’t bring myself to answer. School. I must’ve known I’d be going, since I got dressed up like a store doll, but I confess it was a disappointment to hear the word out loud. Then I remembered that I would be meeting that big fat tattletale, Thomas Sawyer. I’d have to think on a nice punishment for that boy. Maybe a little maple stickiness on his desk seat would fix him right. But, no, somebody was sure to miss the jug if I snuck it to school.

  Miss Ada turned and smiled at me, brown lips turned up like sunny sausage links. “Who are you over there? Couldn’t be Miss Becky Thatcher. This girl in front of me looks scrubbed and sharp as a needle. You even got your coonskin on,” she said with a wink and a tug on my dress sleeve.

  “Fishskin, Miss Ada,” I grumbled. I had a special kind of dislike for dresses and called them my fishskins. When I was wearing one, I felt like a fish caught in a net and could barely keep from jerking and jiggling. “Better make it three cakes today.”

  “ ’Scuse me?”

  “Please, Miss Ada.”

  “That’s right, please,” she said, scooting four steaming cakes onto my plate. She slid the butter dish toward me and made up a plate for Mama, who’d been taking her meals upstairs. “Your mama may not be talking much lately, but even she keeps her manners. She’d want you doing the same.”

  It didn’t seem real good manners to me to read books with titles like Woe Betide the Dangerous Inclinations of a Soldier’s Wife’s Heart. “Miss Ada, why do you reckon Mama likes spending time with those romantical books of hers?”

  Snatching the syrup jug off the table, Miss Ada sighed at my plate. “You’re gonna make yourself sick with all that sugar. I don’t know why she likes those books. Maybe ’cause she can skip the bad parts. Can’t do that in life.”

  “Oh.” I made quick work of half the hotcakes and drowned my sausage in syrup, playing at letting it struggle before it went dead enough for me to eat. Not a nice game, Jon used to say, but it sure makes sitting at a breakfast table more tolerable. “Why do you reckon she hides that photograph of the family?”